Sarah Dessen

by This Lullaby (v5)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  June

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  July

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  August

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  November

  Chapter Eighteen

  NOVELS BY SARAH DESSEN

  That Summer

  Someone Like You

  Keeping the Moon

  Dreamland

  This Lullaby

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  Published in 2002 by Viking, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers.

  Copyright © Sarah Dessen, 2002

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Dessen, Sarah.

  This lullaby / Sarah Dessen.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Raised by a mother who’s had five husbands, eighteen-year-old Remy believes in

  short-term, no-commitment relationships until she meets Dexter, a rock band musician.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17669-6

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 3. Mothers and

  daughters—Fiction. 4. Musicians—Fiction. 5. Bands (Music)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D455 Tk 2002 [Fic]—dc21 2001055917

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording

  or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright

  owner and the above publisher of this book.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In the depth of winter,

  I finally learned that

  within me there lay

  an invincible summer.

  —Camus

  She’ll be back soon.

  She’s just writing.

  —Caroline

  a cognizant original release september 29 2010

  June

  Chapter One

  The name of the song is “This Lullaby.” At this point, I’ve probably heard it, oh, about a million times. Approximately.

  All my life I’ve been told about how my father wrote it the day I was born. He was on the road somewhere in Texas, already split from my mom. The story goes that he got word of my birth, sat down with his guitar, and just came up with it, right there in a room at a Motel 6. An hour of his time, just a few chords, two verses and a chorus. He’d been writing music all his life, but in the end it would be the only song he was known for. Even in death, my father was a one-hit wonder. Or two, I guess, if you count me.

  Now, the song was playing overhead as I sat in a plastic chair at the car dealership, in the first week of June. It was warm, everything was blooming, and summer was practically here. Which meant, of course, that it was time for my mother to get married again.

  This was her fourth time, fifth if you include my father. I chose not to. But they were, in her eyes, married—if being united in the middle of the desert by someone they’d met at a rest stop only moments before counts as married. It does to my mother. But then, she takes on husbands the way other people change their hair color: out of boredom, listlessness, or just feeling that this next one will fix everything, once and for all. Back when I was younger, when I asked about my dad and how they’d met, when I was actually still curious, she’d just sigh, waving her hand, and say, “Oh, Remy, it was the seventies. You know.”

  My mother always thinks I know everything. But she’s wrong. All I knew about the seventies was what I’d learned in school and from the History Channel: Vietnam, President Carter, disco. And all I knew about my father, really, was “This Lullaby.” Through my life I’d heard it in the backgrounds of commercials and movies, at weddings, dedicated long-distance on radio countdowns. My father may be gone, but the song—schmaltzy, stupid, insipid—goes on. Eventually it will even outlive me.

  It was in the middle of the second chorus that Don Davis of Don Davis Motors stuck his head out of his office and saw me. “Remy, honey, sorry you had to wait. Come on in.”

  I got up and followed him. In eight days, Don would become my stepfather, joining a not-so-exclusive group. He was the first car salesman, the second Gemini, the only one with money of his own. He and my mother met right there in his office, when we came in to buy her a new Camry. I’d come along because I know my mother: she’d pay the list price right off the bat, assuming it was set, like she was buying oranges or toilet paper at the grocery store, and of course they’d let her, because my mother is somewhat well known and everyone thinks she is rich.

  Our first salesman looked right out of college and almost collapsed when my mother waltzed up to a fully loaded new-year model, then poked her head inside to get a whiff of that new-car smell. She took a deep gulp, smiled, and announced, “I’ll take it!” with characteristic flourish.

  “Mom,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. But she knew better. The entire ride over I’d been prepping her, with specific instructions on what to say, how to act, everything we needed to do to get a good deal. She kept telling me she was listening, even as she kept fiddling with the air-conditioning vents and playing with my automatic windows. I swear that was what had really led to this new-car fever: the fact that I had just gotten one.

  So after she’d blown it, it was up to me to take over. I started asking the salesman direct questions, which made him nervous. He kept glancing past me, at her, as if I was some kind of trained attack dog she could easily put into a sit. I’m used to this. But just as he really started to squirm we were interrupted by Don Davis himself, who made quick work of sweeping us into his office and falling hard for my mother in a matter of about fifteen minutes. They sat there making googly eyes at each other while I haggled him down three thousand bucks and got him to throw in a maintenance plan, a sealant coat, and a changer for the CD player. It had to be the best bargain in Toyota history, not that anyone noticed. It is just expected that I will handle it, whatever it is, because I am my mother’s business manager, therapist, handyman, and now, wedding coordinator. Lucky, lucky, me.

  “So, Remy,” Don said as we sat down, him in the big swiveling leather throne behind the desk, me in the just-uncomfortable-enough-to-hurry-the-sale chair opposite. Everything at the dealership was manufactured to brainwash customers. Like memos to salesmen encouraging great deals just casually “strewn” where you could read them, and the way the offices were set up so you could easily “overhear” your salesman pleading for a good deal with his manager. Plus the fact that the window I was now facing opened up to the part of the lot where people picked up their brand-new cars. Every few minutes, one of the
salesmen would walk someone right to the center of the window, hand them their shiny new keys, and then smile benevolently as they drove off into the sunset, just like in the commercials. What a bunch of shit.

  Now, Don shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie. He was a portly guy, with an ample stomach and a bit of a bald spot: the word doughy came to mind. But he adored my mother, God help him. “What do you need from me today?”

  “Okay,” I said, reaching into my back pocket for the list I’d brought. “I double-checked with the tux place and they’re expecting you this week for the final fitting. The rehearsal dinner list is pretty much set at seventy-five, and the caterer will need a check for the rest of the deposit by Monday.”

  “Fine.” He opened a drawer and pulled out the leather binder where he kept his checkbook, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen. “How much for the caterer?”

  I glanced down at my paper, swallowed, and said, “Five thousand.”

  He nodded and started writing. To Don, five thousand bucks was hardly any money at all. This wedding itself was setting him back a good twenty, and that didn’t seem to faze him either. Add to it the renovation that had been done on our house so we could all live together like one happy family, the debt Don was forgiving on my brother’s truck, and just the day-to-day maintenance of living with my mother, and he was making quite an investment. But then again, this was his first wedding, first marriage. He was a rookie. My family, however, had long been of pro status.

  He ripped out the check, slid it across the desk, and smiled. “What else?” he asked me.

  I consulted my list again. “Okay, just the band, I think. The people at the reception hall were asking—”

  “It’s under control,” he said, waving his hand. “They’ll be there. Tell your mother not to worry.”

  I smiled at this, because he expected me to, but we both knew she wasn’t worrying at all about this wedding. She’d picked out her dress, decided on flowers, and then pushed the rest off on me, claiming she needed absolutely every free second to work on her latest book. But the truth was, my mother hated details. She loved to plunge into projects, tackle them for about ten minutes, and then lose interest. All around our house were little piles of things that had once held her attention: aromatherapy kits, family tree software, stacks of Japanese cookbooks, an aquarium with four sides covered in algae and one sole survivor, a fat white fish who had eaten all the others.

  Most people put off my mother’s erratic behavior to the fact that she was a writer, as if that explained everything. To me that was just an excuse. I mean, brain surgeons can be crazy too, but no one says it’s all right. Fortunately for my mother, I am alone in this opinion.

  “. . . is so soon!” Don said, tapping his finger on the calendar. “Can you believe it?”

  “No,” I said, wondering what the first part of his sentence had been. I added, “It’s just amazing.”

  He smiled at me, then glanced back down at the calendar, where I now saw the wedding day, June 10, was circled several times in different colors of pen. I guess you couldn’t blame him for being excited. Before he met my mother, Don was at the age where most of his friends had given up on him ever getting married. For the last fifteen years he’d lived alone in a condo right off the highway, spending most of his waking hours selling more Toyotas than anyone else in the state. Now, in nine days, he would get not only Barbara Starr, romance novelist extraordi naire, but also, in a package deal, my brother Chris and me. And he was happy about it. It was amazing.

  Just then the intercom on his desk buzzed, loudly, and a woman’s voice came on. “Don, Jason has an eight fifty-seven on deck, needs your input. Should I send them in?”

  Don glanced at me, then pushed down the button and said, “Sure. Give me five seconds.”

  “Eight fifty-seven?” I asked.

  “Just dealership lingo,” he said easily, standing up. He smoothed down his hair, covering the small bald spot I only noticed when he was seated. Behind him, on the other side of the window, a ruddy-faced salesman was handing a woman with a toddler the keys to her new car: she took them as the kid tugged on her skirt, trying to get her attention. She didn’t seem to notice. “Hate to push you out, but—”

  “I’m done,” I told him, tucking the list back in my pocket.

  “I really appreciate all you’re doing for us, Remy,” he said as he came around the desk. He put one hand on my shoulder, Dad-style, and I tried not to remember all the stepfathers before him that had done the same thing, that same weight, carrying the same meaning. They all thought they were permanent too.

  “No problem,” I said as he moved his hand and opened the door for me. Waiting for us out in the hallway was a salesman, standing with what had to be that eight fifty-seven—code for an on-the-fence customer, I assumed—a short woman who was clutching her handbag and wearing a sweatshirt with an ap pliquéd kitten on it.

  “Don,” the salesman said smoothly, “this is Ruth, and we’re trying our hardest to get her into a new Corolla today.”

  Ruth looked nervously from Don to me, then back to Don. “I just—” she sputtered.

  “Ruth, Ruth,” Don said soothingly. “Let’s just all sit down for a minute and talk about what we can do for you. Okay?”

  “That’s right,” the salesman echoed, gently prodding her forward. “We’ll just talk.”

  “Okay,” Ruth said, somewhat uncertainly, and started into Don’s office. As she passed she glanced at me, as if I were part of this, and it was all I could do not to tell her to run, fast, and not look back.

  “Remy,” Don said, quietly, as if he’d noticed this, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” I told them, then watched as Ruth made her way inside. The salesman steered her to the uncomfortable chair, facing the window. Now, an Asian couple was climbing into their new truck. Both of them were smiling as they adjusted the seats, admired the interior: the woman flipped down the visor, checking her reflection in the mirror there. They were both breathing deep, taking in that new-car smell, as the husband stuck the key in the ignition. Then they drove off, waving to their salesman as they went. Cue that sunset.

  “Now Ruth,” Don said, settling into his chair. The door was closing on them, and I could barely see his face now. “What can I do to make you happy?”

  I was halfway across the showroom when I remembered that my mother had asked me to please, please remind Don about cocktails tonight. Her new editor was in town for the evening, ostensibly just passing through from Atlanta and wanting to stop in and be social. Her true motivation, however, was that my mother owed her publisher a novel, and everyone was starting to get a little antsy about it.

  I turned around and walked back down the hallway to Don’s office. The door was still closed, and I could hear voices murmuring behind it.

  The clock on the opposite wall was the school kind, with big black numbers and a wobbly second hand. It was already one-fifteen. The day after my high school graduation and here I was, not beach bound or sleeping off a hangover like everyone else. I was running wedding errands, like a paid employee, while my mother lay in her king-size Sealy Posturepedic, with the shades drawn tight, getting the sleep she claimed was crucial to her creative process.

  And that was all it took to feel it. That slow, simmering burn in my stomach that I always felt when I let myself see how far the scale had tipped in her favor. It was either resentment or what was left of my ulcer, or maybe both. The Muzak overhead was growing louder, as if someone was fiddling with the volume, so that now I was getting blasted with a rendition of some Barbra Streisand song. I crossed one leg over the other and closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into the arms of my chair. Just a few weeks of this, I told myself, and I’m gone.

  Just then, someone plopped down hard into the chair on my left, knocking me sideways into the wall; it was jarring, and I hit my elbow on the molding there, right in the funny bone, which sent a tingly zap all the way up to my fingers. And suddenly,
just like that, I was pissed. Really pissed. It’s amazing how all it takes is one shove to make you furious.

  “What the hell,” I said, pushing off the wall, ready to take off the head of whatever stupid salesperson had decided to get cozy with me. My elbow was still buzzing, and I could feel a hot flush creeping up my neck: bad signs. I knew my temper.

  I turned my head and saw it wasn’t a salesman at all. It was a guy with black curly hair, around my age, wearing a bright orange T-shirt. And for some reason he was smiling.

  “Hey there,” he said cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

  “What is your problem?” I snapped, rubbing my elbow.

  “Problem?”

  “You just slammed me into the wall, asshole.”

  He blinked. “Goodness,” he said finally. “Such language.”

  I just looked at him. Wrong day, buddy, I thought. You caught me on the wrong day.

  “The thing is,” he said, as if we’d been discussing the weather or world politics, “I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?”

  I was sure I was glaring at him. But he kept talking.

  “I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together.”

  “You got all this,” I said, clarifying, “at the tire display?”

  “You didn’t feel it?” he asked.

  “No. I did, however, feel you slamming me into the wall,” I said evenly.

  “That,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to me, “was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was about to talk to you.”

  I just looked at him. Overhead, the Muzak was now playing a spirited version of the Don Davis Motors theme song, all plinking and plunking.